One Day More

RORY'S ADRENALINE was still up after that terrible moment of watching Val take a beating before his own confrontation, so he not only made it through Les Mis but also through Hamilton and—oh joy!— Something Rotten , which did not, indeed, end badly, much to Rory's surprise.

He wondered if he should google "musicals that don't end badly" and then decided probably not—it would probably be a depressingly short list. He took the win and moved on to Hadestown , knowing it would suck but by now on a quest for Val's kernel of optimism, of hope in the story. By the time the soundtrack wound down on his Spotify, Rory was, indeed, captured by hope.

As the night forged down and deep through a desert mostly populated by the headlight snake of the freeway, he started to ask himself when he'd lost that hope.

When had he started to figure he would be in it for the short term, for the quick and dirty, for the brief liaison, rather than the relationship?

Had it been when his marriage had disintegrated, after he'd admitted to himself—and to his wife—that women, even beautiful, kind, bright women, didn't turn him on as much as the hot guys they were watching on TV?

She'd been horrified at first, then sad.

And then, as he'd continued to be good husband, a good father , she'd been accepting.

"It's so hard," she'd confessed to him tearfully. "Rory, I love you."

"I love you too," he'd told her. "Just not the way you need me to. Not the way you deserve."

They'd stayed married for a couple more years after that, to raise Anthony until he hit kindergarten and could deal better with the two homes, and then he and Connie had worked hard to make his world as perfect as possible.

Maybe it had been then, when his nights without Anthony had been his time to explore his sexuality and his nights with Anthony had been no dates allowed?

What about after Anthony had gone on to college?

Was it then? Had he just figured, hey, he was nearing fifty, he was too old for courtship games?

Wow, Rory. That's cynical. The last person you courted was Connie.

He'd seen himself living with her forever too. They'd gotten together in college, like you were supposed to, and she'd been so friendly, so much fun. Any other man would have worshipped at her feet.

In fact Rory worshipped at her feet, and she'd had him stand up as her bridal attendant in her wedding to a really wonderful man with thinning hair and a potbelly who looked at her like she hung the moon.

Kevin worshipped at her feet too, and Rory loved the guy like a brother for helping to undo the damage Rory's bungling had inflicted on a really great woman. So Connie got her happy ever after.

But when had Rory decided he was the lone gunman, wandering into town, solving people's problems, and wandering back to the gun range he ran with Anthony? Had it been his injury? Had that made him bitter? He didn't feel bitter.

He felt like he'd had his chance for a happy ending, and he'd blown it.

Even Connie doesn't think you blew it, you moron.

Hell. Val was going to expect an honest answer, wasn't he? What did Rory have to give him after a night listening to musical theater and searching his own damned soul?

Fear of failure? Weakshit. Total weakshit.

But also—God, was it the truth?

Rory grunted and felt the pressure in his bladder just as he saw the sign for the rest stop. For a moment, he got excited; then he remembered how the Cassidy brothers had shown up everywhere they had.

"Val!" he called back, depressed because he'd hoped to give the man more sleep than this.

Val mumbled something, and Rory saw the control for the intercom to the back.

"Val?" he asked again.

"If you're going to complain about Hadestown , blame Virgil," Val mumbled.

"I will not. Ovid could have fixed that shit, but he didn't."

"Fucking Jesus, stop waving your education around like a giant dick," Val complained. "What did you want to ask me?"

"I would like to take a leak, but I would like to not make us a target. Is there a bridge I should piss off of? A turnout? Any ideas?"

Val grunted. "There's a rest stop ahead?" he asked. "Turnberry?"

"That's the one," Rory agreed. "Why?"

"The bathrooms are shut down," Val told him. "You can park there and find a cactus or something. I'll check the back gate. They wedged a screwdriver in there last time."

"Shit! Why didn't you tell me?" Rory felt a little put out. Shouldn't he know everything?

"Because I jammed it in the back of the rig next to us for shits and giggles. With any luck, they're on their way to Dallas instead of Austin, and these fuckers will spend a long time getting nowhere."

"You think it was tracked?" Rory hadn't thought of that, and it was supposed to be his job.

"What do you usually do if you find a tool somewhere it's not supposed to be?"

Rory blinked. "Add it to my toolbox," he said.

"Yup. I didn't want their shit in my box. I gave it to the guy next to us. Good luck asking him for bull jizz."

Rory chuckled. "Okay, here we are. Do you need to find a cactus too?"

"Yeah, then I can take over—"

"Bullshit. I've got three more hours," Rory told him.

"It's not a contest." Rory could hear the man's mild tone, the tone that said if it was a contest, he'd just won.

"It is. I'm winning," Rory told him childishly. "Shut up and look alive. We're pulling in."

TRUE TO Val's word, the rest stop was deserted. The rig's lights illuminated what had once been a charming little stop, with picnic tables, two large bathrooms of twelve or so cubicles each, and a couple of changing stations for families or folks who just didn't want to pee with the masses for whatever reason. The bathrooms themselves had been locked, however, and the sidewalks that networked the place were overgrown. A lawn that had once probably been green and lush was overgrown with crabgrass that spidered from clump to clump, spreading like fungus across the cracks in the sidewalk.

Val hadn't been kidding about pissing on a cactus. They'd started to make inroads into the disintegrating landscaping. It would be as easy to hit one than not.

Rory went first as Val was crawling out of the back, and he returned to use a wet wipe on his hands while Val went to do his own business. He returned to where Rory was leaning up against the rig, and for a moment they both paused, looking out into the shadowed landscape. Rory had seen a fox crossing behind the bathrooms and was pretty sure he'd heard an owl—and heaven knew how many snakes were nearby.

While the truck's sidelights were on, Rory had turned off the headlights when he'd set the brakes, and the thing idled in relative quiet while they both closed their eyes, turned their faces to the sky, and took a breath.

To his surprise, Val pulled his phone out of his back pocket and sighted through the camera, aiming above their heads.

Rory looked up and saw the glow of the Milky Way, and off in the distance, tendrils of light from the nearest big city, throwing the cacti into silhouettes. He heard the soft click of the camera, and then another, before Val slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sky," he said gruffly into the quiet. "It's a tradition. Me and Dad would be hauling, and the little kids asked for pictures of sky. When we're out of town now, even Sal, we take pictures of the sky."

Rory grunted, moved. "I used to bring Anthony stuffed bears from airports," he said, thinking about an entire room full of stuffed bears that Anthony refused to part with, even at twenty-five.

"This is cheaper," Val told him, and Rory watched that lean mouth quirk at the corners. The humor, the sensuality, made Rory shiver.

Rory was suddenly, acutely aware of Val's warm body, shoulder to shoulder with his own, and of the sharp smell of the wipes, as well as the scent of creosote and cactus blooms and dust—and probably owl guano and rattlesnake skin as well.

But mostly Val, his even breathing, his warmth, his strength….

Rory turned first, saw Val, his battered face tilted toward the sky, his eyes closed as Rory got closer to make his move.

Val opened his eyes, peering through the darkness into Rory's. "What?" he asked.

"This," Rory whispered and claimed his mouth.

He started out slowly, palming Val's upper arms, squeezing his biceps as he plundered Val's hard but willing mouth. Val gasped and opened for him, letting him in, and Rory swept inside. For a moment, they were more than two heartbeats underneath a lonely velvet sky. For a moment they grew, expanded, became magnificent, their bodies merging, growing in wonder, becoming part of the world around them as their hearts beat in synchrony.

The kiss ended, and Rory leaned his forehead against Val's, hauling in one breath after another, stunned at the ferocity of his reaction.

To his credit, Val wasn't ready to let the kiss go either, and he continued placing tiny kisses at the corners of Rory's mouth, of his eyes, on his cheeks, while Rory tried to keep himself from shaking.

"That was… that was amazing," he gasped, pulling Val closer. "That… what do I do with that?"

Val gave a humorless snort. "Save it for later," he said grimly. "I'm surprised our two friends didn't sniff the wind and make a beeline for us at this hole in the desert."

Rory's arms tightened around Val's shoulders, and to his relief Val allowed himself to be held, to snuggle, resting his head on Rory's shoulder, where, Rory was starting to realize, he belonged.

"I want later," Rory told him, meaning it with everything in him. His pulse thundered in his throat, in his wrists. His entire body shook with the aftermath of that kiss, and he didn't understand how that could happen.

"You gonna talk to me before later happens?" Val asked suspiciously, and Rory shouldn't have been surprised, yet he was.

He peered down—Val was about three inches shorter than he was, but he didn't look cowed in Rory's arms, only patient. That kiss, he realized, had been 100 percent honest, because Val Royal apparently didn't do it anyway but. Was that why Rory's heart was still thundering in his ears? Why the feel of the man in his arms was so huge? So vital? Because he'd tasted trust, understood that Val Royal wasn't a man to be trifled with? This was a man who could make a small business work in an economy actively trying to kill it. This was a man who could maintain contact with his family, who could balance an ungodly number of siblings and speak fondly of his parents and keep his word to his friends.

Rory got it now. You didn't just fuck and leave a Val Royal. In or out of bed, this man deserved his respect.

Deserved his care.

"Valiant?" Rory hazarded.

"My first name?" Val murmured, stepping back. Rory felt the loss of him keenly, but he was scrambling for purchase here. To have Val Royal was to open himself up, to trust, to believe Val wouldn't let him down. Rory hadn't been able to do that since… since his wife , for God's sake, and he was supposed to do it now for a man he'd known less than forty-eight hours?

Val met Rory's gaze in the starlight, his lean mouth quirked mildly to let Rory know he wasn't stupid about why Rory would change the subject.

And also, Rory realized, that twist in his mouth was guarding against hurt.

"Your heart," Rory said. "Don't… don't pull away yet." He felt his weakness keenly, but God. He'd never known the stars could be this bright or the darkness could breathe this softly. "Have some faith in me?"

He felt rather than heard Val's sigh, and it was as though his heart started again when Val melted against him.

"It's not a big story," Rory murmured. "No big deaths, no terrible betrayals. Just habit. I came out, split with my wife and realized between my kid and my job it wasn't… you know, a good idea to date. No strange men in the house when I had my kid. No time to date when I didn't. That's all." The words sounded small and cowardly, holding such a good man under the vast crystal sky.

"And you got into the habit," Val murmured, seemingly content in Rory's arms for the moment. "There's no shame in that, McCauley. Ask me how I know."

Rory chuckled rawly and closed his eyes. His skin thrummed with the magic of the man leaning his head against Rory's chest, with the smell of cholla and creosote bushes and desert dust, with the chill of the night sky. "How do you know?" he whispered, wanting to hear more of Val's grumbly voice.

Val had probably opened his mouth to tell him when they heard the far-off rumble of an engine. Probably not their guys, but….

"Don't think about it," Rory said sharply as Val headed for the door. "You've still got three hours of sleep."

"You sleep," Val said, scrambling into the driver's seat before Rory could stop him. "I'm going to be thinking about one helluva kiss."

Rory swore to himself and ran around the rig, pulling up into the cab as Val put the thing in gear.

SINCE VAL had beat him to the cab, Rory took him up on the offer to nap some more. While working operations in the FBI, Rory had learned not to pass up on rest when it was offered, and that particularly went for sleep during his normal circadian rhythms. His hours were more regular now than they were with the bureau—it had been a long time since he'd gone seventy-two hours while chasing down a suspect or closing down an op, and he was pretty sure that Val was used to waking up very early and going to sleep around seven at night.

Hopefully, they should have their cargo delivered to the lab in Austin by seven this night, and… and then what?

Rory knew that the job entailed waiting for a turnaround—wait for the lab results, and if they were favorable, take the longhorn stud in a cattle trailer back to California within the week. But… but what if there was something wrong? It wasn't that Rory was afraid of not getting paid; if nothing else, Val had insurance to make sure his employees would get paid if the clients experienced distress. But what would Val end up doing? He'd made it clear this client was a friend , and if he'd learned anything about the man in the last two—wait, three days—it was that Val wasn't going to just let his friend twist in the wind if he could do anything about it.

Frankly Rory didn't see himself going back home without Val Royal, and that included if something went heinously wrong with the delivery.

That heartbeat under the desert sky had meant something to him—something important. Rory wanted to see where it would lead, and he couldn't do that if he was the kind of guy to cut and run.

He stretched out in the sleeper cab, his decision made to stick with Val through thick and thin, and he yearned for that moment back. He wanted that conversation. He wanted another kiss. He couldn't remember the last time he'd hungered so much for a might-have-been.

He resolved to do whatever he needed to make the next moment like that the thing of beauty that had been missing from his heart.

HE WOKE up to a scream of real pain, two shots of gunfire, and Val's shouts of fury from outside the idling rig.